Aeonian
by Ea Skyrah
Summary: A greek mythology infused nessian fic series with a darker twist to the ship.


_**"Well, aren't you a little ray of pitch black?"**_

Aeonian 1

 **I.**

"Poor Nesta," Ianthe chided. "No longer a virgin."

Nesta's fingers wrapped around her fork, tightly gripping the cold metal.

"No God would want a deflowered woman," the blond crooned. "Especially one who _thinks_ she does know her place."

The brown-haired woman stabbed at a piece of salad, and shoved it into her mouth. Chewing slowly on the hard leaves, she quelled the chaotic waves surging within her. She refused to give into her anger—to allow Tomas to have the last hold on her.

"You always talked about not wanting a God." The other female smiled, sharp as a blade. "I guess Tomas Mandray really did you a favor."

That was the last straw for Nesta. Yes, no God would want to claim a non-virgin—which was perfectly fine with her, especially after all Feyre had been accounted for, still missing to this day—but for Ianthe to dare—have the audacity to—rub assault in her face, even from the dark times of three years ago—

The eldest Archeron sister twirled the fork in her fingers, staring hard at the dried, yellow leaves and mottled, squished fruit in front of her. It was against the law to attack a priestess, but an even greater sin to murder the village's Head Priestess.

But no one said anything against _accidents_.

With a flick of her wrist, Nesta sent the fork flying out her hands and at Ianthe's right eye.

A perfect execution. A warning that a line had been crossed. A sign that they would never see eye to eye—that Nesta's gaze would never waver, unblinking, and unflinching.

A loud gasp escaped from Nesta's mouth, and she lunged forward, knocking Ianthe to the floor. The High Priestess's shrill pierced the air, and Nesta moved quickly, digging the edge of the fork deeper, twisting the metal. Even through the metal, she could feel the edges grinding against the root, white and pink liquid swirling.

"I'm so sorry!" Nesta cried, slipping on a mask of horror, climbing over the other female. "I can't pull it out." Her hair fell across her face, a shadowed curtain—and she allowed Ianthe to see the dark smile cutting across hers face, sharper and deeper than any mortal blade.

For three years, the darkness' isolation had cultivated into something icier and harsher—a ghost of a phantom whirling within her. She'd shown Ianthe just a pinch.

As the High Priestess shrieked, bodyguards stormed into the diner, clad in plates of metal, faces shadowed by a thick, black masks. Nesta allowed the memories of three years ago to consume her, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Loosening her grip on the fork, she curled into herself, rocking on her heels.

The nearest guard grabbed her elbows and set her roughly onto her feet.

"What the hell happened?" he gruffly ordered, shaking her shoulders.

Ianthe let out a hiss, but Nesta's contempt was a gaping abyss full of raw will.

The eldest Archeron sister harshly rubbed away stray tears seeping down her cheeks, and forced down the sick smile threatening to erupt across her face. "The High Priestess came out of nowhere—" Nesta hiccuped "—my reflexes spun out of control—"

"Psychopath!" Ianthe screeched. "Chain her! Whip her!"

When the guard reached out for her, Nesta collapsed onto her knees, and laid her palms against the Priestess's heart. "Forgive me," she loudly cried. "I meant no malice."

She leaned in closer to Ianthe's face, as if she were to kiss her cheeks, the fallen woman sobbing and shuddering. Nesta brushed a finger against the golden-haired woman's forehead as an almost tender caress, and wrapped her hand around the emblem pinned to Ianthe's robes. Pressing her lips against the High Priestess' ear, Nesta whispered, "Now you can see darkness."

Ianthe kicked upwards. Nesta rolled off of the blue-robed woman.

Ianthe's trembling fingers grasped the hilt of the fork. Nesta twisted her fingers into her pocket, and hunched her shoulders, the image of a thoroughly fearful woman.

Ianthe's throat elicited squeaks of gagging and gurgling noises, but her right eye pinned on Nesta's form. Her mouth pinched, then hissed out, "Put her in an empty cell!"

The guard trapped Nesta's wrists, tugging her away from the High Priestess. Two more went at her sides, caging her in. Little did they know cornering a wildcat, bred from the savageness only the true seers of society saw, would end in detrimental dysfunction.

Nesta schooled her features into a blank, empty face, struggling within the solid grip. She spared a glance towards the blue-robed woman. "The only cells missing are those in your eye."

Stepping over the boots and knocking herself forward as she were tripping, Nesta twisted herself out of the guard's grasp, using the falling momentum to bring him down on his back.

Plates of metal lumbered towards her, and Nesta tore out the the diner, blocking the sounds of Ianthe's feeble cries of _my eye, my eye, my eye_ over and over again.

Fixing her sleeve, a darker and sharper smile shot over Nesta's face.

She didn't even have to pay for that shit excuse of a meal.

 **II.**

Nesta stole through the night and into the forest. Here, the darkness draped over her already black-clad frame. She knew this path at the back of her mind, weaving through thick tree trunks and sailing over high-branched roots. Slowly, the heavy clanging sounds of armor receded from her ears, but Nesta picked up her pace.

This was the seventh village Elain and Nesta had taken refuge in—ever since Feyre had been taken three years ago and Tomas had yanked her into a barn, both Archeron sisters turned into wanderers, fleeing with the wind. Trust was reduced to bread crumbs, and even they could barely afford for the tiniest slice.

What God had taken Feyre—Nesta had no idea, but had her suspicions. It had been any other morning, Nesta serving buttermilk pancakes while Elain had went up to fetch Feyre from the drawing room. Rather than seeing their middle sister painting with her hair twisted up into a messy bun, the stench of alcohol and grapes had permeated the room.

Elain had screamed. Nesta came up running with a knife in her hand.

Feyre's hunting clothes had been strewn all over the floor, a purplish-green scrap of fabric littering across a canvas. It was as if the their middle sister had given them a warning and a signal that she'd been claimed—by a God.

Nesta knew the rules. When Gods claimed humans, they dressed them in their ornamental colors and symbols. Yet green and purple were common colors, even found among the varying masses of minor Gods.

It was then Nesta banished all hope of desiring to be claimed by a God. She'd once dreamed, among the others, to be one with another force, to see through another set of eyes, and to ascend the mortal limits.

She'd once set apples and pears along the mantle of Athena, the one God she'd revered the most. Three years ago, she'd pray to the God of Wisdom, asking for guidance. Now all she did was pray to the minor Gods of vengeance and fear, demanding divine retribution for those who had wronged her—because it hadn't just been her who'd been afflicted and twisted.

Nesta had watched Elain spiral into the coldness as well. The youngest Archeron no longer made honeyed offerings to Demeter, the goddess of the Earth. She instead grew darker roses and pricked her fingers as if lines of blood served as her penance.

It was as if the darkness of the demons had descended upon the Archeron sisters.

No happiness, no protection, no understanding.

A branch snagged the sleeve of her arm, and Nesta hissed. Despite this village's soldiers pursuing her and having to move to another village, she felt oddly safe and warm, a blanket of false security.

Perhaps it was because she'd stolen the golden emblem from the High Priestess, the coin tucked securely under her sleeve. The price would last them another to journey to another village.

The moon casted swirls of strange colors of white against the darkness and the green of the forest. She slowed to a walk, taking in her surroundings. The branches reached low, stroking hunched, estranged shadows that curved and murmured unspoken cacophonies the human ear tuned out. Nesta slowly angled her body and slid through a cluster of vines.

The myths had become reality a long time ago, the Gods deciding to end their supposed boredom in waiting. The beginnings of their reappearance into society was often bloody, jealously in both claiming humans rampant and in being desired to be claimed.

Their father had worshiped Hermes, the messenger God, and named the Archeron fortune in his name. Nesta had considered it justice when a business company across the sea had sunk their father's ship, and had stolen every commodity on board.

Their father had never returned the sail back, a merchant following the God of Thieves, saw the end, robbed of life and fortune.

The obsession with the Gods had seen the decline in family values, many children left alone or pitted against each other. Their father had been no exception, travelling to Athens, Greece, in hope of appeasing the Gods.

Death had been his answer.

While Nesta believed it to be foolish to devote a lifetime in praying for Gods, the higher beings indeed chose humans. Those taken under their wing received immortality. It could be eons before Feyre would be brought back to them willingly and unwillingly, and there was a high chance Nesta and Elain would be six feet under in a coffin or reduced to ashes by that time.

It had taken Feyre's kidnapping for Nesta to realize that being trapped in a powerful body with no regard for lesser creatures and their emotions and past was something she did not want.

So she stopped praying and stopped her offerings.

Elain had followed suit.

Both sisters had been shunned from the original village in consequence.

Now that Nesta harmed Ianthe, it looked like they'd have to move again. Whisperings of rumors and fault had followed the Archeron sisters as they traveled, and it never seemed the words would never cease.

Cursed.

Yet solace stirred within her, and Nesta scowled at the feeling akin to comfort's cost crawling within her.

Elain would be beyond worried by now. Nesta knocked away the thin branches and ducked under a canopy of large ivies she knew would reveal a large clearing only a couple of meters away from their temporary home. Soon, she'd be running in the veil of the night, holding Elain's thin hands again.

Her head rammed into steely hardness.

She rubbed her nose and slowly backed up.

Seething, Nesta untucked a dagger hidden under her sleeve, and pushed the wall forward with her other hand.

It didn't move.

Squinting through the darkness, Nesta realized that streaks of dark, dried red pooled down silver plates, sheer power exuding from the figure.

A soldier.

The amount of blood could only mean a dead man.

But if a soldier was here, then the chances of Elain's safety was very low. She had to get out of here, quickly and quietly.

Cursing under her breath, she turned around back under the canopy, but a gloved hand with a huge, red jewel pulsating at the center lashed out and captured her wrist.

It was a solid grasp, almost crushing her bones.

This was not the ordinary soldier's strength. And it was a very much alive man.

She dropped the dagger into her other hand and sliced it vertically towards the hand.

Her blade merely bounced off, falling to the ground.

With a yank, the hand jerked her back against a chest of steel and coldness. Yet Nesta felt warmth pour over every vein and crevice in her body.

The male towered over her, dark, hazel eyes cramming into her own soul, sheer strength emanating from him, broad shoulders with muscles roping around an enormous form.

A purebred, dangerous warrior.

Those piercing orbs raked over her, starting from the bottoms of her torn boots to over her clothes and under the slope of her breasts, up to her collarbone and into her own stormy eyes. Black boots, black pants, black sleeves—and if he looked close enough, he'd see a black painted heart.

A brow flicked up. "Whose funeral?"

Nesta shuddered at the low, husky voice that shot down her spine. She refused to be weak again—the last time she was in a male's embrace three years ago. She would not be fooled again.

"Get off me," she hissed instead, and squirmed fruitlessly in his grasp.

His dark inked hair and ruggedly shaven face rang a bell, but Nesta didn't care, not when Elain had been alone far too alone. The predatory glint in the male's face heightened memories of three years ago, but her body remained strangely calm and soothed.

"That's no way to treat a God."

Nesta realized the blood seeping from the armor was not from the male's, but a head hanging from the canopy above, a thin river of red raining down.

Nesta arched her own brow. "I'd suggest planning his funeral soon." She could see the outlines of the dead body strung along vines and branches, gutted and torn apart.

The male shrugged. "If you want to plan a murdering liar's funeral, then be my guest." The arm around her waist hitched up to rub circles across her back, almost daring her to string the body back to pieces.

Nesta didn't find the action disturbing, but rather reassuring. Perhaps he was a minor god in infatuation or magic along those lines. The gaze no longer seemed of predatory possessiveness, but of _amused affection_.

A dangerous smile appeared on those rough-hewn features, as those seemingly pulsing eyes studied her. "I like women who can handle blood."

"I like men who can respect boundaries." Nesta damned her cover and swore if he didn't let her go, she'd scream—even if it meant drawing the village's soldiers here.

The male seemed to read her thoughts. "You think humans are match for a God?"

Nesta didn't reply, and cursed her own traitorous body sinking into the comfort and warmth the male seemed to offer.

He leaned in closer, a hand stroking her hair. "A match for the God of War?"

Nesta's eyes widened. "You lie."

"Now why would I lie, sweetheart?" The God leaned down and brushed his mouth against her ear. "Especially to one I want to claim?"

Another last straw for Nesta. She lashed out, but the God easily cupped her knee cap with one hand—just hovering over the V of his hips—and the other hand flattening a palm against her back.

"A cheap shot." A grin.

Nesta went up on her toes, her hands cupping the God's cheek. His skin was warm and sent delicious trills down her. The God leaned down as well, his eyes darkening, a low growl erupting from his throat, hands folding around her waist. Just before his lips closed on hers, Nesta's knee collided with her aim.

It was a pity his armor covered his torso, but the God still doubled over in pain, a foul curse leaving his mouth.

Nesta didn't wait before she sprinted around the clearing and to the house where Elain was waiting. Running past the locked front door, she hurdled over a bush into the back.

Slipping through the window and into their shared room, Nesta grabbed her bag, stuffing the nearest clothes into the brown material.

A frail figure rose from the tiny bed, and Elain rubbed her eyes. "Nesta?" she whispered, a sigh of relief escaping her chapped lips.

"Pack," Nesta ordered. "We've got to move again."

Elain immediately hauled herself out of the bed, rapidly opening all the tiny cupboards and sweeping the contents into bags. "What was it this time?"

"Ianthe, soldiers, and a God." Nesta folded all the blankets and stuffed the pillows.

"The High Priestess?" Elain said, heading to the bathroom. When she emerged, all the toiletries had been zipped into bags and stuffed into a larger sack. "What God?"

 _A God of War._

One that made her feel alive instead of merely existing.

Instead, Nesta said, "Just a minor one." She beckoned Elain to head to the kitchen so pack their last rations, the cold air seeping into their skin. She gave the guards about another hour before they found their refuge.

Locking the window shut, Nesta froze when Elain's scream shattered the air. Bolting into the next room, she snarled when she saw Elain shivering and staring in shock at a large figure radiating the familiar sense of power—seating himself in the ragged and torn chair as if it were a throne fit for a king.

But that was what he was compared to them.

"Just a minor God?" the God _tsked_ his tongue, staring at Nesta—as if Elain were invisible and as if he could consume Nesta right there and then.

"Get out of my house," she seethed, and nudged Elain away.

Elain levelled Nesta with a clipped stare. "Really, Nesta? The God of War? Ares?"

 _Ares._

The name sent shivers down her spine. It made the situation too real, too risky. By no means was this some _minor_ God, as Elain had realized, trembling.

She supposed it was the small mercies—the God allowing Elain to bolt away—that mattered.

An eyebrow cocked towards her. "It's won't be your house much longer will it, Nesta?" When she didn't answer—her veins on fire—he pushed further. "Guards are searching for you and closing in."

"What do you want?"

The God rose from the chair, the darkness wavering around him. The red jewels on top of each of his gloves exuded another type of power. A set of dimples winked down on her and those deep, brown eyes stared unfathomably at her. "I want to claim you."

Nesta swallowed. This was her last defense, her last barrier to remain free: "I'm not a virgin."

With swiftness beyond reason, the God moved so he was in front of her. He studied her eyes and the pulse along her throat—the fury and the rage in her own eyes and the quicker, beating pulse in memory of three years ago. Seconds passed before his eyes narrowed, and he gutted out, "Who?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You resist my claim, and the guards will be here sooner than you think."

Nesta shivered. "Then you're just as bad as him."

The male who had taken her away three years ago.

The God of War looked down at her, and gently reached out a hand, traced with scars and bruises. When she didn't bat it away, his knuckles slowly caressed her cheek. "I can help you, sweetheart."

She'd wasted enough time. "Help is just another word for control."

" _Who hurt you_ ," the God snarled, the red stones flaring. Lethal dark oozed from them.

A crash sounded from the other side, and Elain meekly peeked up from under the countertop. "I packed all the kitchenware."

The God of War didn't spare a glance in the other direction, determinedly staring into her soul—seeing the darkness. "I can help you and your sister. You'll be safe. You won't have to run again."

"At what cost?"

He leaned down so that his forehead touched hers. Warmth shot through her at the contact, and in that moment, she felt safer than she'd even been in his life.

"I claim you," he murmured, voice dark and dangerous, deep and deadly. "As mine."

"And if I refuse?"

A glimmer of amusement in those hazel eyes. "I hear cells in this village are quite cold."

"Threatening a mortal?"

"What can I say, sweetheart?" A cocky, dark grin, honed from insanity and lunacy in the battlefield. "All's fair in love and war."


End file.
